"You told Jack?" Sander stepped out of the door, quickly sliding his arms into the sleeves of his long-sleeved flannel shirt.

Damien shut the door behind them, raised his iPhone up for Sander to see. "He said he'll meet us there," he said, pocketing his phone. "Max'll be there, too. He got your message."

Sander nodded, taking his steps down the corridor alongside Damien. Something vibrated in his jeans pocket, then, and he slid a hand in, pulled out his phone. "Lyn said she'll be there," said Sander, looking up from his phone. His phone buzzed again, in his hand. He glanced back down at the screen, looked up at Damien to say, "She still has to talk to you about your English presentation on Monday."

Damien grimaced. "We're in some freak situation, and all she could think about is that—"

Footsteps beat down the hallway. And in a second of a heartbeat, someone grabbed Damien by the shirt, shoved him against the wall. A warm kind of pain pierced his shoulder blades and ran down his back, the bang from the impact ringing in his ears.

"Why?" yelled Brendan, his brown hair more of a mess than it ever was. "Why'd you do it? Just because you and your new friends made it out doesn't mean you have the freakin' right to call the freakin' cops. Or did you forget that we were still in there, huh? Huh?" he said, pushing Damien harder against the wall.

People were starting to gather around, an audience curious and thrilled to witness a fight. Doors opened, boys stepping out doorways to watch. Others halted in their tracks, anticipating the next move.

"What are you talking about?" asked Sander, behind Rian who was holding him back. "He didn't call the police."

"Really?" asked Brendan, his eyes burning with anger, intent on Damien pinned motionless to the wall. "Really? So you mind to explain why the cops barged in some time after you left and arrested all of us there? Why they knew about the lookouts at the Front Gate and got in through the West Gate and blocked out the Back Gate, so we couldn't get through? No one else would've known but the party peeps. And word got out you reported it. Said one of the cops spilled your little secret. Said you had the freakin' guts to say your name loud and proud when you called them up."

"You got us kicked out of here, D," said Rian, still holding Sander back. "You remember what Mister Grisham said, don't you? Or did you forget about that just like how you forgot us back there?"

"I didn't call the police," Damien spoke out in defense, shoving Brendan's hands away from him. He stepped forward, causing Brendan to take a few steps back. "I'm telling you, I didn't call them. And I don't know who did."

"What's going on?" a voice boomed through the corridor. All eyes turned to a short, bespectacled man striding over to their direction. The man, Mr. Brunner, pushed Damien and Brendan apart, stood between them with his arms raised up. He turned to Brendan, and said, "Mister Lacy, didn't I tell you to simply gather your things and pack your bags, not to start a fight?"

Brendan kept his eyes on Damien, nonetheless. He clenched his hand into a fist, and the look he gave Damien was enough to say, If only I could beat you to a pulp here and now, I would, gladly and without hesitation.

"And, Mister O'Connell, will you please let go of Mister Alexander, and go gather your things as well? We all know that poor boy can't even hurt a fly. And all of you," said Mr. Brunner, addressing the audience, "disperse. Stop taking pictures. Put away those despicable mobile phones. The show is over. Move on, move on, all of you," he said, his hands sweeping through the air.

And with that, the crowd dissipated. Doors thudded closed around them; boys returned to their dorm rooms. Others walked on down the corridor, making their way downstairs for breakfast or whatever plans they had that morning. Then it was only them—Damien, Sander, Brendan, Rian, and Mr. Brunner.

"Don't just stand there," said Mr. Brunner, looking at Brendan, then Rian. "Go and get a move on. Pack your bags, don't give me any more trouble. Your parents will be here soon to pick you up." He turned his sights to Damien, reached a hand up, patted the boy's shoulder. "That's a brave thing you did there, kid. Doing the right thing isn't always easy."

"Mister Brunner, I didn't—"

"There's no shame in doing the right thing," assured Mr. Brunner, giving Damien's shoulder another pat. "You did what you had to do, even if that meant losing your friends. It's a step in the right direction. Be proud of yourself, kid."

"Hey, D."

Damien shifted his sights over to Brendan standing right outside his dorm room, his hand still clenched tight into a fist, Rian standing next to him.

"You're not the only one who hates going home," said Brendan, looking straight at the boy he once called a friend—now a traitor. "Hope that sinks in."

With one last look, he and Rian stepped into their dorm room, Brendan slamming the door shut behind him, producing a bang loud enough to express his last unspoken statement.

And whilst Mr. Brunner shouted at the closed door, scolding Brendan Lacy for possibly destroying school property, Damien realized then and there that all in one night he had lost his partners in crime—and perhaps his girlfriend as well.

Max took a sip of his hot chocolate, his blue eyes peering at Jack, who had been stabbing the pancake on his plate for the past eight minutes, taking no more than three bites. Max lowered the mug down onto the table, and said, "So, Jack, no basketball practice this morning?"

    "Cancelled," said Jack. "Coach texted me. Cops came to the graveyard last night, arrested everyone who was at the party. And that included everyone on the team. Well, almost everyone. One of the new guys on the team—we call him Alpha Mike 'cause he jokingly claimed on the first day of practice that he was the better, smarter, Asian version of the other Mike, who we now call Vanilla Mike by the way—it's all an inside joke, you see—anyway, so Alpha Mike didn't make it to the party last night 'cause he had a bad case of diarrhea. And man"—Jack let out a low chuckle—"who knew diarrhea would've saved him? Yet it did, it hella did."

Max looked down at his mug of hot chocolate, only to transfer his glance over to Jack, in an attempt to rid himself of the thought that someone secretly poured liquid crap into his cup. "Lucky dude," he managed to say, trying to keep a straight face.

"Yeah. Lucky dude," Jack agreed, finally feeding himself a small slice of his pancake.

"I woke up thinking last night was just another bad dream," said Lyn. "Then I see these scratches on my arms and hands, and get a text from Sander saying everything that happened last night was no dream and that we should meet here in The Raven's Nest." She sighed. "I actually believed things might be better if I transfer here. But life has its way of handing you lemons and squeezing them into your eyes, like a surprise punch to the face."

"None of us expected this, Lyn," said Max. "And this isn't fun for any of us, either."

Lyn looked away, embarrassed, feeling her face heat up. She turned her attention elsewhere, grabbing her mug of hot chocolate, taking a sip.

"And, Lyn," Max added. But Lyn refused to look, slicing out small bite-sized pieces of pancake, trying to ignore how her face still flushed, stupid warm and stupid red. "You're not alone."

She glanced at him for a split second. "Thanks," she muttered, stabbing her fork into one of the pancake pieces.

"Sorry, we're late," said Sander, taking his seat next to Jack.

Damien slumped down onto the chair at one end of the table, without saying a word, his eyes on the plate of pancakes before him.

"Ordered from The Breakfast Club menu," said Jack. "TJ told me it'll be good for five."

"But we got an extra order of pancakes for you, Damien," said Lyn, without a glance at any of them. "Just in case."

Damien chuckled. "You know me."

Lyn gave him a wry smile, and turned her attention back to her breakfast.

"Pancakes and bacon with maple syrup," said Sander, picking up his share from the huge plate of pancakes at the center of the table. "Excellent choice, sires and Lady Adelina."

"Couldn't go wrong with fluffy pancakes," said Max, getting another one for himself. "And bacon." He stabbed his fork into a strip and quickly got himself a second. "You can never go wrong with bacon."

Lyn chuckled. "Tell that to the pigs crying out in pain from those oh-so-wonderful slaughter houses."

Max set his fork and knife down, turning his sights to Lyn. "Someone's got a taste for dark humor."

Lyn's eyes met his, and she smiled her wry smile. "Another fantastic product brought to you by unhealthy coping habits and my messed up brain. You like it?"

Max rolled his eyes, only to smile and laugh a second later. Lyn looked away, and felt the corners of her mouth quirk up, holding back a laugh, inwardly struggling to comprehend this strange light feeling buzzing within her.

"What took you so long?" asked Jack, after taking a sip of hot chocolate.

Damien said nothing. Then—

"Brendan showed up, and by the looks of it, he was going to beat the life out of Damien," said Sander. "He shoved Damien against a wall, while Rian held me back. Apparently, the cops arrested them some time last night along with everyone else at the party. They accused Damien of calling the police, said that he mentioned his own name loud and proud while he was making the call."

"And now they're expelled," said Damien, drawing their attention. "Mister Grisham told us after the flare incident: one more shenanigan, one more stupid thing to get us into trouble, then we'll be kicked out of here, automatically. So there you have it." He sliced a long strip of bacon into two. "They're packing their stuff now. Brendan's mom and Rian's parents will be here soon to pick them up. And there's nothing I can do to freakin' fix this."

Max's eyebrows drew together. "But you couldn't have made that call. We were—"

"Try explaining that to Mister Brunner," said Damien. "Or to Brendan and Rian without them beating the hell out of me. Or to anyone. No one's going to believe us. They'll think we're making some crap up."

Lyn sighed. "Damien's got a point. If we couldn't believe it ourselves, how do you expect anyone else to take us seriously?" She looked up from her pancake slices, turned her sights to Damien. "But what are you going to do about it?"

Damien shrugged. "Dunno," he said, frustrated at the thought.

"Maybe you don't have to say anything about those men," suggested Sander, "and that other guy who helped us last night. Maybe you just have to tell them the truth—that you didn't call the police."

"Yeah, the truth," said Jack, poking at a strip of bacon with a fork. He shifted his eyes over to Sander. "But there's this one thing I want to know—the truth—what's the deal with you and Ronny?" He paused, knowing the other three were listening, too. "Because it looks like you both have got something going on we don't know about, Sander," he said, stabbing the end of his fork into a strip of bacon. "Or do we call you Junior now?"

Sander heaved a sigh. "Sander," he said, with conviction. "Junior was a childhood nickname. Let me explain." He took a breath, breathed out, then said, "My dad's name was Christopher Alexander, making me—"

"Christopher Alexander, Jr.," said Max, in realization.

"It's actually Christopher Alexander the Second, but you know what I mean. The Second, Junior, pretty much the same thing. Hence, the nickname. But my dad . . . " He paused a moment, breathed in, breathed out. "My dad wasn't a good man. Even back in high school, he was quite the delinquent. Petty crimes, juvie, alcohol, drugs." Sander picked up his mug, took a sip of his chocolate drink. "My mom loved him, and she thought that she could change him."

"Like some good-girl-falls-for-complicated-bad-boy love story?" muttered Lyn.

Sander nodded, having heard her. "Yeah. Something like that. Thing is, it doesn't work like that in real life. She made a mistake. She was pregnant with my brother when she was a senior in high school. She and my dad married right after graduation, and"—he shrugged—"he didn't get any better after that. Even after they had my brother, even after they had me. He only got worse." He picked up his mug, took another sip.

"Hold on, let me get this straight," said Max, holding two hands up. "Your dad wasn't a good guy, and he wasn't a good dad, so you hate him for it, and that's why you go by the name Sander and never told us the number two part of your real name?"

"I wouldn't say hate, but maybe hiding in a closet with my brother while watching my dad beat my mom up when he was drunk or high never gave me any happy memories of him."

"Dude, I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about, Max," said Sander. "Life happens. Things happen." He gave his friend a gentle smile, then, "I just don't want to carry his memory with me. I don't want his name attached to me like some criminal's son label. He and I might have the same name, but I'm not him—I'm me. And I promised long ago that I'm never going to be like him."

"So back to the real question," said Jack. "What's the deal with you and Ronny?"

"Something about you finding people to replace him and his posse," added Damien.

"Ronny and I," said Sander, saying nothing for a moment, then, "Ronny and I used to be friends."

Max's eyes widened. "What?"

"Not really friends. But something like that. We used to hang out, sort of. Ate lunch at the same table, walked to the academic building together, walked back to the dorms together. Just stuck around with him and his football friends."

"What? How? When?" Max glanced at each of his friends seated around the table. Then again to Sander, he said, "Why?"

"Ronny and I go a long way back. Actually, our dads did. They knew each other. They were friends. They were business partners. Problem was, their business was never legal in the first place," Sander explained. "As I said, my dad was a criminal. He was into drugs. And so was Ronny's."

"Explains why his dad's in prison," said Damien, "besides murdering Ronny's mom."

"My dad should've been in prison, too," said Sander. "But he chose to run. And that only led to worse consequences."

Max thought for a moment. "You mean he's—"

Sander nodded. "He passed away when I was five, a few months after my mom and my brother and I left him and moved here to Oregon."

"Overdose?" asked Damien, recalling what he had overheard in the bathroom incident last week.

"No," said Sander. "The police barged into their place, arrested his business partners and the people who worked for them, including Ronny's dad. My dad managed to escape, and the police chased after him. They said he drove off with the car trunk filled with thousands of dollars worth of cash and drugs. They said he was high when he drove off the road, when the car tumbled down the cliff. News came a week after that he was dead, that they found his body, or what remained of him, in the wreckage."

"So what does this have to do with you being friends with Ronny?" asked Max. "Besides his dad and your dad being friends and business partners and all."

"Before freshman year, the last time my brother and I saw Ronny was a week after we left California and moved here to Oregon to start anew. Turns out he went to live with his granddad after his dad shot his mom dead and went into hiding, and apparently his granddad lives here, too.

"My brother used to play football for Ravenwood, and he noticed Ronny when he tried out for the football team back in freshman year. He thought it'd be a good idea to patch things up between him and us, so for a while, he took him under his wing. Back then, I didn't know anyone else, so I stuck around with my brother most of the time, and that meant I stuck around with Ronny and his friends, too."

"Then what happened?" asked Max.

"I don't think it's a surprise that what he's been through did something to him. He's always had that sadistic side of him, a drive for superiority, power."

"A mask to cover something troubling him from within," said Lyn.

"As far as Cheryl's told me, his grandpa isn't the lovable kind," said Damien. "Used to push Ronny to be the best in everything—school, sports—just not in the best way." He took a sip. "She told me he's the borderline abusive type, physical, verbal. Not a surprise Ronny isn't any different."

"Ronny's worse," said Sander. "He takes out his inner demons on everyone. I used to try to talk him out of it, tell him to stop, again and again. But he wouldn't listen. He'd say that I shouldn't have an opinion because I just stick around, justify that who he is is only a product of everyone else's faults—his dad's, his granddad's, even my dad's.

"So yeah, I stuck around for a year, then . . . Talya," he said, the look on his face uneasy at the memory. "He wanted her for himself the first time he saw her. Then he decided that she had to be his. So one day, after school, he and his friends pulled her to the trees, telling her—threatening her, actually—to be his girlfriend. She refused. I tried to help her, told him to let her go, that I had enough of all he was doing." Sander took a breath. "Then he gave the command, told his friends to beat me up. No room for traitors, he said. And they did, without question. It was a good thing Talya called her dad up and scared them away. If it wasn't for her, the injuries would've been worse." Sander sighed. "That was the day I gained a friend. But that was also the last day Ronny saw me as a friend, or rather someone who'd tolerate all that he was doing, although too weak to be called a proper enemy."

"That's the reason he still torments you, isn't it?" said Lyn, in realization. "He pushes you down because you have the guts to stand up against him. And he knows you won't play dirty, that you won't fight back with your fists. So he takes advantage of that."

"It's likely," said Sander, his eyes on Lyn. "But I don't think I could ever fight back that way. I won't stoop down to his level." He shook his head at the thought. "Never."

Jack yawned, stretched his arms overhead. "Man, this is starting to sound like some freakin' support group. Anyone else care to share their innermost thoughts and feelings?"

A hand raised up, slowly. "Uh, dudes," Max began, all eyes turning to him, "I've got something to say."